More Than a Number
by Book 'em Again
Summary: It was just a number. Every soldier had one. A number that every soldier knew by heart. Every soldier except Corporal Louis LeBeau. 191... 8124... The numbers always got jumbled up in his head. He played it off as a joke, but nothing could be further from the truth. Not when this secret could get him killed.


**More Than a Number**

 _AN: This story was written for SSSW Challenge. I used the prompt, "He's you, that's who he is." from the episode "The Well." And for the record, this story truly was an exercise in speed writing as I returned from my overseas vacation three days ago and read the prompts while standing in a very long customs line, which is a record for me. Also, thanks to honu59 for the quick beta job. Enjoy!_

* * *

Corporal Louis LeBeau staggered back when a large bundle was dropped into his waiting arms. The rolled up volleyball net was both heavy and awkward and he was sure that he looked ridiculous trying to carry the thing by himself. What on earth had possessed him to agree to this plan?

"I can't see," LeBeau complained to his friend and partner in crime, Sergeant Kinchloe.

Kinch grinned as he twirled the volleyball around in his otherwise empty hands. "Good; it will make things more believable. You ready? The others are in position."

LeBeau grunted an affirmative and tried to not focus on his aching arms. Instead, he pictured the scene in front of him, for he didn't need to see to know where everyone stood. He and Kinch were near Barracks Two watching for their target to appear. Carter, with his pockets full of explosives, would be in the middle of the compound, within striking distance of the waiting staff car. Newkirk would be lurking outside of the Kommandant's office, an attaché case concealed under his jacket, waiting for the perfect moment to make the exchange. He wasn't sure where Colonel Hogan was standing but the officer would be nearby, ready to swoop in and run interference as needed. There was no need for LeBeau to worry. The plan was solid. The only thing left was for him to make a fool of himself. In other words, just a normal day at Stalag Thirteen.

"The General's on the steps," Kinch announced and then placed his right hand on his friend's shoulder, gently guiding the Frenchman across the compound.

LeBeau trusted his friend completely so that when Kinch gave him a slight push he tripped and threw his bundle forward as he crashed to the ground. Loud voices cursed in German and when LeBeau looked up he saw General von Poppenheim tangled in the net with a flailing Colonel Klink beside him.

"Help!" Klink shouted. "Guards!"

Before the guards could come forward, a mass of prisoners surrounded the downed Germans. "Don't worry, Kommandant," Hogan said, "my men will get you out in no time."

Rising to his feet, LeBeau pulled the net off of the General while Newkirk helped the man to his feet. A red-faced von Poppenheim shoved the POWs away and yelled, "Klink! This is an outrage! Allowing prisoners to assault officers of the Third Reich!"

Klink looked like he was going to faint as he answered the General, "No! I mean, no, Herr General. I assure you that the prisoners will be punished."

"Excuse me, General," Hogan said. "I apologize on behalf of my men for this unfortunate accident."

"Accident!" the General shook his head in disbelief.

"Yes, sir, an accident," LeBeau explained. "I didn't see you there." Then looking at his feet because he didn't trust his face to not betray his real emotions, he said, "I am deeply sorry for my mistake."

General von Poppenheim huffed and said, "I should have known. By accident is the only way a Frenchman could hurt a member of the victorious Third Reich."

LeBeau bristled but kept his mouth shut. Unfortunately, the General wasn't finished speaking. "What is your name, Frenchie?"

"Corporal Louis LeBeau." He snapped to attention and hoped that the General wouldn't notice the information that he had intentionally omitted.

"Do they give out serial numbers in your army?"

"Yes, sir." _Don't ask,_ LeBeau silently pleaded. He hadn't had to give his number since he had arrived at Stalag Thirteen and he wasn't sure he would be able to remember correctly.

"Recite it then."

LeBeau gulped; he could do this. Just don't look at the angry general, nor at Colonel Hogan who was frowning behind the enemy officer. "819...no 2. 812...4..." _What came after the four? Was it six? No, that was from the wrong number._ He was in trouble now. Giving a weak smile, he shrugged. "I forgot."

The General, who had looked like he was going to explode in anger, suddenly burst out laughing. However, Klink did not fine the situation amusing. "You will answer the General's question," the Kommandant ordered.

The General smirked. "You're addressing a Frenchman, Klink. You can't expect them to act like real soldiers. You should have seen how they cowered as we marched through France."

"Why you - " LeBeau clenched his fists tightly as he stepped forward to answer the insult to his country only to be jerked back by Kinch's strong grip. He tried to wriggle free, but his friend held him fast.

Klink added his laughter to his superior's as they walked away. The whole incident seemed to be forgotten as the Germans said their goodbyes and von Poppenheim drove out of camp. That was, it was forgotten by everyone that mattered except one.

"LeBeau, my office now," Colonel Hogan ordered as soon as the Germans were out of earshot.

LeBeau didn't look at the others as he followed his CO inside; he needed to come up with an explanation and fast. Colonel Hogan was very good at hiding his true emotions when he needed to, but right now the officer wasn't bothering to hide his annoyance.

Once the door closed and the two men took their seats, Hogan began, "Recite your serial number."

Without hesitation, LeBeau said, "191..." No, that was the wrong one. He was definitely in trouble now. "No, 8124..." He began to sweat. He still couldn't remember what came after the four. He paused, but the American officer kept up his silent stare. Hogan wasn't going to let him off this easy. Faking a smile, he asked, "What was the question again, Colonel?

"What is your serial number?"

"My serial number."

"Your serial number, Corporal."

Great, if Hogan was pulling rank then he was moving from annoyed to angry. But LeBeau continued to lie. He'd keep this secret for so long now that he didn't know how the American would react. Or if he would even understand. "Why should I bother memorizing it? It's on my dog tags."

"In my army, you wouldn't have made it out of basic training without being able to recite your serial number without hesitation at any time of the day or night."

LeBeau opened his mouth, ready to spin a tale about how desperate France was for soldiers, but Hogan beat him to it. "And I see little reason to suspect that things would be different in France, no matter how bad things got before the end."

"You don't believe me!" LeBeau hoped his tone of desperation was coming off as hurt.

"I believe that a soldier who can't recite his own serial number is a risk to this unit and I believe that you care too much about this operation to put us at risk without there being a good reason."

There was no good answer to that statement. Colonel Hogan was not going to settle for anything less the truth. If LeBeau wanted to continue to fight for France and for his family, he needed to stay with this unit. He had no choice; he would have to trust the American. Taking a deep breath, LeBeau took his tags off, set them on the table and then rattled his real serial number off with ease, "19176546."

Hogan frowned as he looked down at the dog tags. "That's not the number on your tags."

"No, sir, it's not." LeBeau hesitated as gathered his thoughts. Where should he begin? How much should he tell? But once he started talking, the whole story came tumbling out.

* * *

 _Dun-sur-Auron Airbase, France - June 1940_

With clenched fists and rage in my heart, I stared at the powerful inferno before me. The thick smoke filled the air and stung my eyes, but I was unable to look away. It didn't matter how much my eyes hurt or that my stomach rebelled at the nauseating smell, I couldn't look away.

Nine fighters. Nine planes that I had serviced. Nine planes that I'd spent many a sleepless night making sure that they were fueled, armed and fully operational. Those nine planes were now on fire and I had helped light the fuse. But, even though I knew that it was better for them to be destroyed than end in the hands of dirty Bosche, it didn't make doing the deed any less painful. Because as I stood there watching the flames, I couldn't shake the feeling that it was France that was burning that night.

A hand gripped my shoulder and I looked up to see my closest childhood friend standing beside me. For a few moments, we just stood there, unable to admit this was really happening. To say out loud what we both knew inside - France was losing the war. The Germans had won.

Finally, my friend broke the silence. "Come on, Louie. It's time."

I said nothing as we turned and walked back to what remained of our bombed out airbase. A skeleton crew of men remained, scurrying about to prepare for takeoff the few planes they still had pilots left to fly them.

Sergeant Perrier hollered as we approached the hanger, "LeBeau! Lévine! Assist Captain Dupont."

"Yes, sir," we replied. Hurrying over to the fighter, we helped with the final checks as we had already refueled the planes before using all that was left to feed the inferno behind me.

The gunner, Marchal, gave my shoulder a slight squeeze as I passed him. "Vive la France."

"Vive la liberté," I replied. Then jumping off the plane, I grabbed my beacons and began the process of guiding the fighter out to the runway. We no longer had a tower or the manpower to run one so I had to use my eyes and my judgment to ensure that the runway and the airspace were clear.

After giving her pilot the signal to takeoff, I stepped back and watched one of the last of our planes disappear into night, heading not to the front lines or to Paris, but to Morocco. At that moment, every fiber of my being screamed for me to yell, to tell the pilot to turn back, to go rejoin the fight, but fighting was no longer an option. France was falling and her defenders had fled at Calais, at Dunkirk and now from Dun-sur-Auron. We had no choice. Not if we wanted to live to fight another day.

To keep fighting, we had to flee, but I wasn't fleeing, I was staying behind. I had no choice. I was not a pilot, nor a technician nor an officer. I was just a corporal, a member of the ground crew. And I was staying behind so others - more valuable soldiers - could flee.

Looking over at my friend, I saw the pain that must have been etched on my face mirrored in his. "This isn't right, Louis," I said. "We will be needed in the fight ahead."

"We'll find our own way to keep fighting."

Even though I still felt defeated, those were the words I needed to hear at the moment. The words that helped me move again. Because after the last plane had left, we ran to a waiting truck and climbed on the back. As soon as we were aboard, the driver hit the gas and we sped down the road, hoping to find a place of safety. A place where, somehow, we would find a way to keep fighting.

As we rode, I allowed my mind to wander. To think back on the times before the war. Before we were Corporal Louis LeBeau and Corporal Louis Lévine. To a time when we were simply Louis and Louie - best friends and troublemakers extraordinaire.

We shared so much more than a name. We were basically raised together, our families living in the same building. As children, we spent so much time in each other's apartments that both units felt like home. We were the Louis boys; we had grown up together, gotten in trouble together and chased girls together.

As we grew into adulthood, we shared the love of French art and French cooking. Never mind that the art was often in the nude and the food was never kosher, which caused our Jewish and Catholic mothers to be vocal in their disapproval of our Bohemian lifestyles. But the love and the friendship were always there.

Hitler could take our country, he could take our lives but he could never take away those moments when we strolled through the streets of Montparnasse. Painting, cooking, drinking, loving - enjoying the best of life that Paris had to offer.

The familiar sound of a siren blaring in a nearby town jerked me out of my thoughts. The Germans were back and the alarm announced a message we all knew too well. _Air raid, seek shelter, take cover._

But there was no shelter left. No cover to be found. So when the bombers passed overhead, I gripped my friend's hand and prayed that this would not be how I died.

The truck swerved hard to the right as a bomb exploded nearby, but it had missed us. We survived. I could breathe again. I never heard the second bomb until it was too late.

I was flung into the air and I hit the ground hard. I thought I was dead but I realized that if I were dead, I wouldn't hurt this much. Rolling onto my stomach, I realized I couldn't move my left arm, so I used my right to push myself to my feet. I was bleeding from several small cuts, but I ignored them. I had to find my friend.

I found Perrier first. He was dead; a piece of metal from the truck had been driven through his abdomen. I pushed away a wave of nausea at the sight. As a chef, I was used to seeing blood, but not like this. Humans weren't meant to look like meat.

A few other survivors from the crash were up on their feet and they urged me to follow them down the road, to continue to flee, but I couldn't leave yet. Not without knowing what happened to my friend.

Not without knowing what happened to LeBeau.

I found him on the other side of the road and at first I was convinced he was dead. He was covered in blood and his right leg was missing below the knee. But when I ran over and touched his cheek, he stirred. "Lévine, is it you?"

"Yes, my friend. I'm here." There was no time to hesitate; he would die soon without help. My right hand went to my neck and I reached for the scarf I always wore; I had no idea how I'd tie a tourniquet with one good hand, but I had to try. I had to stop the bleeding.

LeBeau held up a hand. "Stop," he whispered. "It's no good."

I ignored him. I would save him. I had too. I couldn't let my best friend die.

LeBeau grabbed my wrist. How he found the strength, I didn't know. "Take this." He touched his dog tags with his other hand.

Confused, I protested, "What? No."

Still he persisted. "Give me yours."

"Why?"

"I listened to your cousins' stories, too."

In that moment, I froze; I froze because I remembered all too well the horror I felt when the tales of violence and hatred were shared. Of how my cousins had fled Germany to live in Paris. Of how Hitter was persecuting the Jews. Of how all the Jews in Germany had lived in fear, of how they'd been forced from their homes.

Growing up, I'd never really thought it odd that my family was Jewish and my best friend's was Catholic. We were neighbors, we were friends, we were family. We just worshiped God on different days. But now that difference could determine who lived and who died. And I wouldn't be able to fight for my friend's family or for mine if I was killed for being a Jew. Because my cousins' stories had convinced me that there was no place for any of us in Hitler's world.

LeBeau coughed. "Keep fighting."

I knew in the depths of my heart that he was dying, but I still couldn't bring myself to say goodbye. Instead, I leaned forward and kissed his forehead and held him in my arms as his breathing slowed until it stopped.

Wiping away tears, I rose and looked at my friend's body. A wave of nausea so strong hit me that I had to turn away. Steeling my nerves, I knew I had to honor my friend's last request. I had to switch tags, I had to become LeBeau.

Once the switch was made, I stumbled back to what was left of the truck. I needed to keep moving, to get away from the area, to find help. But when I looked down at my hands, all I could see was blood. My friend's blood. My friend's body. And then my eyes closed and I saw nothing at all.

* * *

"I fainted," the POW who called himself LeBeau said. "When I awoke, there were German soldiers standing over me. I've been a prisoner of war ever since." He didn't add that the sight of human blood still made him sick or that he saw his friend's body in his mind every time. That was one weakness he would never admit aloud.

"When I was allowed to write, his mother figured out the truth immediately, but she wasn't mad. She found a way to tell me that she doesn't blame me and she supports me without the censors catching on. She let my family know I was alive and well. We've kept up the charade ever since."

Reaching into his jacket, LeBeau pulled out the letter that he always keep by his heart. "It's been almost two years since I received this." He grew quiet and let the Colonel read. Some words were still too painful to speak aloud.

Hogan's face grew pained as he read about of the deportations of his family and neighbors. "Have you heard anything since?"

"No." His family had disappeared. They had to be somewhere. He just hoped they were safe even though he knew that could never be in Hitler's world.

Handing back the letter, Hogan said, "LeBeau sounds like a wonderful friend."

"The best, mon Colonel. He was dying and his only concern was for me. He was the bravest man I have ever known. He was..." LeBeau paused as long suppressed grief threatened to return.

"He's you. That's who he is," Hogan said. "You carry more than just your friend's name; you carry his courage and his passion. I've seen you take risks that other men wouldn't because of your love for your country, and now I know why."

LeBeau swallowed the lump in his throat. "I think of myself as LeBeau now. I have no doubt that this deception has saved my life. But I can't get the old number out of my head and I'm not sure that I want to. For it reminds me that I am still a Lévine, that I am still a Jew. Because if I lose that part of myself, it will feel like Hitler has won."

"I can respect that."

LeBeau could barely believe what he was hearing. "You aren't mad?"

"I was when I came in here. I thought you were risking this unit over a bad joke. And while I would feel better if you could recite the right serial number on demand, I understand why that is difficult for you."

"You saw the Bosche. They don't care. They think of me as stupid. But I know the truth."

For the first time since he entered Hogan's office, the officer smiled. "You may be right about that."

Several knocks on the door saved the two men from continuing in their conversation as Hogan said, "Come in."

Carter bounded into the room, his face full of excitement. "Oh, boy, I mean, sir, you should have seen it. The explosion, I mean. There will be parts of German staff car scattered for miles!"

"Serves that rude Kraut right," Newkirk said as he playfully elbowed the overeager American. "Colonel, wait 'til you see what was in that case!"

Kinch stood in the doorway and gave a pointed look to Hogan while nodding towards LeBeau. A look that asked, _Are you are going to keep him forever?_

It was a look that Hogan didn't miss. Tossing the dog tags back to the Frenchman, the officer cleared the table and said, "Bring me the plans. Let's see if the trouble LeBeau got into was worth it."

LeBeau.

With that one word nothing and everything had changed. And for that act of kindness and understanding, he would be forever grateful. Because today, he was LeBeau and he would be LeBeau until the day when France was free and both of his families were safe once more.


End file.
